


Outbursts of Brotherly Compassion

by Ilovecastiel18



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Men Crying, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sobbing, Tea, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25123330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovecastiel18/pseuds/Ilovecastiel18
Summary: Just after the events of TFP. As soon as Mycroft landed back in London, he tore across the city to 221B Baker Street, brushing by everyone who wanted to give him an update. He needed to see that Sherlock, his beloved brother, was alright with his own eyes. Brotherly love. Hurt/comfort, angst. One-Shot.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 84





	Outbursts of Brotherly Compassion

**Author's Note:**

> There are far too few fics that explore the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft. This is my contribution to fixing that.

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn’t mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch.

……….

Outbursts of Brotherly Compassion

……….

Mycroft was frantic. His gaze was darting around the inside of the helicopter at high speed, taking in every single little detail and analyzing it within an inch of its life. He couldn’t find a way to calm his mind, to take a deep breath and focus on his flight back to London.

There was simply nothing he could do until he landed.

While the thought was sound, Mycroft still could not quiet his mind. By the time the helicopter landed at an airbase not far from Baker Street (at Mycroft’s order, of course), he could hardly control his breathing.

Mycroft threw himself out of the helicopter before it had fully touched the ground, ripping off his headset and throwing it blindly behind him.

Mycroft pushed past every person that tried to stop him, tried to give him an update about what happened, even pushed past Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had been frantically trying to get his attention.

Mycroft hopped into the back of a waiting car, snapping at the driver to take him to 221B Baker Street as fast as he possibly could, regardless of traffic laws. The driver obeyed without a word, zipping away from the airfield before the rotors of the helicopter had stopped spinning.

He pulled up to 221B at record speed. Mycroft thanked the driver and promised him a very large bonus for his speediness. Mycroft hauled himself out of the car and busted through his baby brother’s front door, not bothering to knock. He raced up the steps faster than he had ever run before, hurdling himself through the door into Sherlock’s living area, feeling the breath leave his lungs as he remembered the bomb damage that the flat had endured.

Mycroft glanced around frantically, wondering where his brother was, if his brother was alive…

Mycroft’s throat hitched, and he bent over at the waist to take some deep breaths. Just as he was starting to regain himself, he heard shuffling coming from down the ruined hallway.

“Mycroft? What the hell happened?” Sherlock’s voice rang out. Mycroft heard sharp, quick steps coming toward him, before Sherlock meticulously polished, and very dusty, shoes came into view. Mycroft sucked in a breath of relief as he straightened to look at his brother.

Sherlock was battered, with a heartbreaking dullness to his eyes. He looked exhausted, and his bare arms and hands were scrapped and bruised (those abrasions are rough, calloused… stone? Was Sherlock climbing stone walls? Drowned Redbeard… did Eurus put John in a well? Mycroft wouldn’t put it past her. He found himself briefly admiring his brother’s bravery before his previous terror overtook him again).

“Oh, God, Sherlock. I was so worried.” Mycroft staggered, falling backward against the door.

“Jesus, Mycroft. Okay, just hold on a second.” Sherlock held out his hands for a moment, seemingly waiting for Mycroft to fall, before rushing over to the miraculously intact sofa. He brushed debris off the leather cushions quickly, wiping his dusty hands on his pajama pants when he finished.

He gingerly walked back toward his big brother. Mycroft staggered again, this time into Sherlock, causing the younger Holmes to wrap his arm around the British Government’s waist and gently lead him to the sofa. Sherlock lowered Mycroft down slowly, only breathing a sigh of relief when he saw Mycroft was safely tucked back into the plush cushions.

“Do you want tea?” Sherlock asked quietly, unsure what to do. He was hardly used to John having feelings, he was extremely unsure of what to do with himself as his Ice Man brother slouched in defeat.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I know you’re alright now. I can tell you were sleeping, and I can see that you need the rest. I’ll take my leave, brother mine.” Mycroft muttered. He moved to stand from the sofa before a soft but firm grip on his bicep stopped his movements. Sherlock had sunk down onto the sofa next to him, holding him in place.

“Stay, Mycroft.” There was a vulnerability in Sherlock’s eyes that made Mycroft relent, sinking back again. He nodded briefly when Sherlock asked about tea once again.

Sherlock reached toward the living room door, explaining that Mrs. Hudson was away at her sister’s house, and they would need to use Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, kettle, and tea bags since the 221B kitchen was in shambles. Mycroft nodded blearily, and Sherlock rushed off with a swirl of his dressing gown.

He came back a few minutes later with a tray. The kettle was sitting in the middle, with two steaming cups of tea on either side. Mycroft smiled when he realized that Sherlock got his exactly right.

They sipped their tea quietly for a few moments, the only sound in the room being the gentle clink of china against china.

After a few minutes, though, Sherlock spoke up. “What’s wrong, Mycroft?” he asked quietly. He set his cup down on the tray and turned toward his brother.

“I was just worried about you, Sherlock. The last thing I remember is you aiming the gun at… well, you know… and then the next thing I knew, I was waking up in Eurus’s old cell, alone except for the Governor. I was worried that you had gone through with it…” Mycroft relented. “I’m sorry for coming over here unannounced, and waking you up from sleep that you clearly need desperately.” Mycroft said sheepishly.

“Nonsense.” Sherlock said simply, sipping the remainder of his tea. “I was worried about you too, brother dear.” Sherlock continued, after a moment of silence. “I couldn’t… I wouldn’t have shot you, Mycroft. When I woke up at Musgrave and could only get ahold of John… I was really scared. I asked about you as soon as the authorities arrived. I don’t think there are enough words in the English language, or any other, that could express how relieved I was when I found out you were alive and more-or-less okay.” Sherlock paused, surveying his brother. “I’m sorry I ever made you think that I was going to shoot you.” He whispered, ashamed at his actions.

“Sherlock, you have no idea how badly I needed to hear that…” Mycroft whispered, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Why do you think I said it?” Mycroft looked up and Sherlock smirked. “There was no way I would have said all of that if I didn’t think you needed to hear it, brother mine.” Sherlock reached out and gently grasped Mycroft’s shoulder. “I meant it all, but it would have stayed locked away if I hadn’t deduced how close you are to losing it. The Ice Man is melting, Mycroft…” Sherlock trailed off.

Mycroft scrubbed a hand down his face again, holding it in place over his eyes and nose when he felt a sob try to tear its way out of his throat. His shoulders, much to his dismay, started to shake. Mycroft felt Sherlock’s arm snake around his shoulders. He was soon pulled up against Sherlock’s side, both of the detective’s arms wrapped tightly around the British Government’s shoulders.

“Please forgive me, Sherlock…” Mycroft sobbed into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock felt his heart dip down into his stomach at the pure, raw emotion in his brother’s voice.

“I don’t blame you, brother. I could never blame you, you did your absolute best. Better than anyone could have possibly hoped for. I owe you so much, Mycroft… but if forgiveness is what you need, I will provide it. I forgive you, Mycroft. For anything and everything you did to protect me from Eurus before, during, and after everything that happened yesterday.” Sherlock tightened his grip on his brother as Mycroft let out a particularly heart wrenching sob.

He cried for many more minutes, until he felt like he might die from embarrassment. When he had cried as much as he could, he pulled away from his little brother and looked sheepishly at the ground. “I’m sorry about that, brother mine. I know how you feel about emotions…”

“That’s how you feel about them.” Sherlock interrupted. “I don’t mind. I may not be particularly… adept at helping you, but I will do whatever I can, whenever I am needed.”

“Oh Sherlock…” Mycroft fought to bite back another sob that wanted to escape his throat. “What did I ever do to deserve you as a brother?” he whispered, nearly flinching from the unusual sentiment in his voice. After all, he was not prone to outbursts of brotherly compassion.

Sherlock simply smiled, standing and bringing the tea tray out in the ruined kitchen to give his brother some much needed privacy.

Mycroft sniffed and straightened his tie, standing and buttoning his wrinkled suit jacket in a flourish. Sherlock came back out after only a moment.

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Mycroft muttered, forcing himself to look into his brother’s eyes.

“I need you to promise me something before you go, Mycroft.” Sherlock said, stepping closer.

“Anything.”

“I want you to promise me that you will come over, or at least call me, if you need to talk.” Mycroft moved to scoff, but Sherlock cut him off. “I’m serious, brother. If you’re overwhelmed or need to talk or just need to make sure that I am okay, I want you to call me. You do not need to suffer alone and in silence.”

Mycroft nodded; his eyes misty. “Same goes for you, brother mine.” He muttered around the lump in his throat. He was getting incredibly irritated at all of his bloody _emotions._

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Sherlock grinned, reaching out and grasping his brother’s hand in a firm yet soft handshake. Mycroft held his brother’s hand for a bit longer than he would in a standard handshake, reaching up and patting Sherlock on the shoulder.

He turned around without another word, lest he break down and start crying again. Mycroft walked down the stairs and out the door swiftly, his car already waiting on the curb. He climbed into the backseat slowly, finally becoming aware of the aches and pains all over his body. He was sure, now that he had talked to Sherlock, that he would be able to sleep soundly.

And even if he didn’t, Mycroft knew that he could rely on his brother to help him through this.


End file.
